Soft Center
by Mistral Amara
Summary: A slight change to the episode Blood Ties. On Buffy's twentieth birthday, Spike hopes that the way to the Slayer's heart is through her stomach. Complete.


****A/N: Feedback is delicious! Good or bad, as long as it's constructive. Flames will be snuffed.  
Summary: A slight change to the episode Blood Ties. On Buffy's twentieth birthday, Spike hopes that the way to the Slayer's heart is through her stomach.  
Disclaimer: All things Buffy belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and Fox. This not-for-profit fiction has been written for purposes of the author's education and the entertainment of other fans; no infringements on the owners' rights are intended.   
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**Soft Center**  
  
Spike crushed his latest cigarette underfoot and squared his shoulders. It was time to get this over with. Nothing to it, right, just march across the yard and knock on the back door.   
  
He hadn't counted on the house being full of people, though. Just like Buffy's friends, to throw her a party and forget to invite him. Not that he actually wanted to go to a party with those annoying Scoobies, but it would have made it easier to give her the gift he'd brought. If she'd even accept a gift from him--they weren't exactly friends, were they? But he had to try. Maybe she'd see that he didn't exactly think of her as an enemy any more, either. She ought to be pleased he remembered; after all, it's not as if any of them ever remembered his birthday.  
  
Maybe he should wait until they all left; there was no need to make a spectacle of himself in front of the Watcher and that idiot Xander, not while he had this chip in his head and they could smirk with impunity. Better yet, he'd just wait until tomorrow night--yeah, that would look more casual. Tonight he'd just make the rounds of the cemeteries and dust a few vamps, as the Slayer was otherwise occupied.  
  
But as he turned to go, he caught a glimpse of a certain blonde in the window. Buffy had come into the kitchen alone, and was digging in the freezer, looking for something. The next thing Spike knew, he had sprinted across the lawn and was standing on the porch, knocking quietly on the door--just loud enough for her to hear, but nobody else.  
  
He was rewarded--or perhaps punished--by the sound of her quick, light footsteps crossing to the door. It swung open to reveal a puzzled Slayer, whose expression quickly became wary when she saw him.   
  
"What do you want?" she asked sharply. "I'm busy, Spike."  
  
As always, his carefully rehearsed speech evaporated like mist before her blazing sun, and he struggled to recapture words that were long vanished. As the silence grew, she looked around impatiently, and then stepped outside, pulling the door shut. "Look, whatever it is, just say it and go."  
  
"Well," he said, finding his voice. "That's a fine greeting for someone bringing you a present." He thrust the box at her. "Happy Birthday. Congratulations on another year of not getting offed by some demon or other."   
  
"What," she asked, not taking the box, "you mean by some demon other than you?"   
  
"Well, yeah. That's fair, isn't it? I mean, there's no point you being killed if it's not me doing the killing, now is there?" Ouch. Not quite what he'd meant to say.  
  
She stared skeptically at the package, and for the first time he noticed the crushed box and the sad, rumpled bow. "Where did you steal it?" she asked.   
  
"I bought it."  
  
"Bought it with my money, then," she retorted.  
  
Ungrateful chit. "Paid for services rendered. That makes it my money. I could've bought blood with it, you know, or smokes." He waved the box at her. "Look, do you want it or not? I could always give it to Harmony. She may not be all tough and clever like you are, Slayer, but at least she knows how to accept a present gracefully."  
  
Whether it was the thought of Harmony getting her present, or the effect of the left-handed compliment, Spike didn't know, but Buffy unbent enough to reach for the box. He watched hopefully as she undid the bow and lifted off the lid, but his hope drained away as she stared at the contents blankly for a moment, and then began to giggle.   
  
"What?" he asked, confused.  
  
"Chocolates?" She laughed harder. "What century are you living in, Spike?"  
  
"I thought you birds are supposed to like chocolate." In fact, he'd been sure of it. "My mother liked chocolates. It was her favorite present."  
  
"Your mother? Spike, you never had a mother."  
  
"Hey! Did too. You know, I begin to think that she would not have liked you one bit." He snatched the box out of Buffy's hands. "And I'm dead sure that you don't deserve these."  
  
She frowned and snatched the box back. "Those are mine! You gave them to me, and you can't take them back. It's not polite." She looked the chocolates over greedily, finally reaching for the biggest, fanciest piece of candy in the box.  
  
Yes! his mind was shouting. She likes them! His mouth, however, couldn't leave well enough alone. "I don't have to be polite," he heard himself taunt. "I'm evil, remember?"  
  
Her hand froze, hovering above the chocolate. She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. "Are you sure these aren't poisoned or something?"   
  
What?! "Poisoned? You stupid--look, if they were poisoned, the bloody alarms would be screamin' in my head, now wouldn't they?" He fought to control his frustration before it edged over into anger, into violence--mustn't set off the chip, mustn't give her another reason to see him as an animal that ought to be staked. Give a bloke a chance, he was trying, wasn't he?  
  
"Oh, here," he snarled, grabbing the chocolate she'd been reaching for and biting off half. It was buttercream, sweet and delicious, almost as delicious as biting into her creamy white neck was in his dreams. He chewed viciously and made a great show of swallowing. "There, all right?" he asked, offering her the other half of the candy.   
  
She took it without comment and nibbled along one edge, appraisingly. Her eyes widened slightly. "Wonderful," she pronounced it, and popped the rest into her mouth.  
  
"You don't have to sound so surprised about it," he said. "Serve you right if the things really were--" he broke off suddenly, gagging and clutching at his throat. He staggered backwards; his foot went off the edge of the porch and he tumbled down the steps to sprawl face down on the lawn.   
  
He lay as still as only the dead can.  
  
"Spike? Spike?!" He heard the box of chocolates fall to the porch, heard the Slayer fly down the steps, felt warm hands on him, flipping him onto his back. An ear pressed down on his chest, listening for a heart that couldn't beat. A hand hovered by his face, feeling for breath that never stirred.   
  
Small, strong hands shook him by the lapels, pounded on his chest. "You're not dead, Spike. You can't be dead, you're not dust." Her voice was harsh--it figured she'd be angry at a time like this; always thinking of herself, that one.  
  
"Great," he heard her mutter. "If you live through this, Spike, I am so going to kill you. Okay, the chocolates weren't poisoned, because I'm still fine. What, then? Something stuck in your throat? Would it matter? You don't breathe." She sighed. "Only one way to find out, I guess." He felt her hands on him again, tipping his head back and pinching his nose closed. Unbelievable! She was going to try artificial respiration.   
  
As her mouth came down to cover his, he tasted her sweet, warm lips for only a moment before he could control himself no longer. He opened his eyes and burst out laughing; she recoiled as he sat up and gave her his most mocking smile. "Oh, Slayer! I'm flattered, but a simple thank you would have been enough."  
  
"You--you're--"  
  
"Undead? Yeah. Thanks for the concern, anyway."  
  
"Oh! You!" Fists clenched, she jumped up and glared down at him. "Spike, you're bad! Bad!" Then she turned and bolted into the house, slamming the door behind her. A moment later, the door opened again, and a hand reached out to retrieve the fallen box of chocolates, before slamming the door a second time.  
  
Spike sat on the grass, savoring the moment, marvelling at the curious lightness in his chest, where once upon a time his heart used to beat. She hadn't wanted him dead - had actually tried to save him. Now there was a revelation. He got up and dusted himself off, rearranged his clothes, ran his fingers through his hair, carefully restoring the Spike image.   
  
_Yeah, baby, I'm bad. And that's just the way you like me._   
  
As he put his hands in his pockets and turned to walk away, he saw a slender figure disappear around the corner. It was the Nibblet, off on her own in the darkness. What could she be up to? She should know better, growing up the Slayer's sister. Spike glanced back at the house and considered telling Buffy about Dawn's nocturnal excursion.   
  
The bright lights and laughter spilling out of the Summers home decided for him. Let Buffy enjoy what remained of her birthday. He could follow the Nibblet at a distance and protect her from all the uglies in the Sunnyhell night, and no-one the wiser. The Big Bad, protecting Little Red Riding Hood. The Slayer would never believe it. Right, then, he'd never tell her. It would be his own private joke.  
  
Spike snuck into the shadows behind Dawn, grinning. Sometimes, it's good to be Bad.  
  
---The End--- 


End file.
